Being There
by SassyJ
Summary: Maybe he was there, but he failed her in the final scene. Haunted by his past, Stuart returns to an old habit...


_A lousy__,__ bloody day. _ He rubbed a hand over his weary face. _No doubt the guv thinks that I wanted mileage out of his misfortune. And Mickey thinks the same. Got it wrong again__--__one more mistake among so many__._ He dumped the last of the files into his in-tray and reached over to switch off the desk lamp. His eyes strayed towards the three tiny white marks on the inside of his right elbow. Legacy of a time long past, and you had to look really closely to see them. Unless you already knew they were there. Fortunately, no one had ever looked that closely, not even Sam. No one had wanted to know, and he was glad of that. That was a secret he needed to keep, as it could affect his career.

The anniversary of another lousy, bloody day; just like that day all those years ago, he was alone. He wanted it that way. He'd been glad when the job had come in, and the obbo distracted him from the memories. In his ten-year career as a copper, he'd somehow managed to fill each anniversary with things to do, so he could forget. He wanted to do his job so well, he would have time for nothing else.

He wanted to forget. Forget his failure. Forget he'd let her down at the eleventh hour. He'd been around for the final act; but for the very end, he'd been out in the garden, getting a breath of fresh air.

It was almost two AM and he was still reluctant to go home, but staying at his desk with nothing to do was also a bad idea. He knew the memories would get him wherever he was, whatever he was doing. He pushed himself to his feet and pulled his jacket on. He was exhausted, so with a little luck he might just collapse across his bed fully-clothed and fall asleep. He'd done it before. Anything not to have the pictures in his head.

He drove home on autopilot. At least tomorrow was the start of his forty-eight, and then he could hide away from the world. He walked into his bedroom and dumped his jacket on the chair. His shirt landed on the floor but he couldn't be bothered to pick it up. He kicked off his shoes and let his jeans and socks fall wherever he dropped them.

Then, turning out the light, he crawled into bed.

_He was sitting next to her bed. She had finally fallen into an intermittent sleep, and he was exhausted, totally strung out. He'd swallowed his pride because he loved his mother; but he was running on empty, his nerves stretched so tight, one more turn of the screw would snap them altogether. Even his dirty little secret didn't really help anymore._

_Suddenly he needed to breathe. Though Katrina was at a friend's house, she would be home soon, and he needed to organise dinner for all of them. He got to his feet and headed to the garden. Just five more minutes and he would have to be the man of the house again, even though he'd only just turned seventeen. Seventeen... sometimes he felt twice that, and completely lost besides. He really didn't know where he was going, and all he had was his mother and his schoolwork. He buried himself in his books because he had to do well; schoolwork was his passport to better things. His mother had been firm about that. He had to report on his days to her, as she didn't want him frittering his time away._

_He'd found a strategy for coping, his dark and dirty little secret. He swallowed pride and fear and digested it into fuel for success. But the guilt was always there. He still had to deal with guilt. Like the two hours from the day before when he'd told her and the day nurse he was at school in the library working on his A Level Geography project, and told the school he was home looking after his mother. Met the rest of the group at the cinema and joined in, just the once. But he couldn't enjoy the film. Guilt was crushing him. He'd left at the end, turning down the half__-__hearted attempts to get him to go to the restaurant with them. Even as he walked away, guilt and resentment vied with each other for his soul._

_He was standing in the back garden; it was dark, winter was upon them, and he shivered__.__ His tee shirt and jumper weren't enough to keep out the cold._

He was shivering from exhaustion and stress. Meadows had cut him out of the investigation once, and even though Meadows brought him back in, that was preying on his mind too; and still he couldn't keep the memories out. He crushed the pillow into a strange squarish shape and buried his face in it, trying to hide from the image...

But it kept coming.

_He climbed the stairs, trying to remember what they had in the fridge and freezer. He wasn't much of a cook. Hoping his mother wanted something he could easily zap in the microwave, he pushed open the bedroom door._

_His mind was at first unable to register the truth his eyes saw as they looked down at her. Then he knelt by the bedstead and gathered her into his arms, begging her to hang on, his trembling fingers stroking her hair back from her face. Some of the first-aid class came back into his head, and he tried to apply what he knew. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard the bang of the front door and his sister's voice calling him as he held their mother in his arms and begged her to come back to them. He'd heard his sister's feet on the stairs...and somehow he'd found the impetus to lay his mother back down and go out onto the landing. Katrina was only fifteen; she didn't need that image of their mother__,__ gone._

_Handling his sister's distress had dried his own tears. He'd turned his pain away from himself. From somewhere he'd managed to pick up the telephone and dial the emergency number, though his fingers threatened to drop the receiver any second._

He tightened his grip on the pillow, tried to breathe deeply, and screwed his eyes shut against the burning. It made no difference; the sobs forced themselves past the aching void in his throat and the pillow grew wet even as he struggled for control. Even when he was younger, he'd never let anyone see him like this. His instinct was to present a front to the world, his protection against anyone getting inside again. Perhaps if he didn't care, he would never feel this hurt again.

So there were two Stuarts: the shallow, vain one who thrived on control and winning; and the private Stuart, the man inside who still had echoes of the hurt, frightened, guilt-ridden child. The hurt which had never gone away.

Tonight seemed worse than all the others. Perhaps because he was alone, his control was crumbling away. He stretched out a hand and pulled open the bottom drawer of his bedside cabinet.

The old toiletry bag was still there. He didn't even know why he had kept the bag, and the artefact inside. _A link with the past__,__ perhaps?_ When he'd gone to the chemist's and bought the blades, he'd pretended it was for his father, even though his father had left when his mother had fallen ill. He pulled the ancient zip open, and there _it_ was, inside. He picked it up. Touching it took him back in time. All the blades were gone, except one.

He snapped open the razor, stiff with age and lack of use. The blade slid forward and he caught it in his hand, looked at the name engraved in the maker's stamp: _Ever-Ready_. He smiled humourlessly as he remembered thinking how true that was: Ever-Ready for him...for that one moment. When guilt and resentment blended as one, and the fresh feeling: one quick little slice and the brief moment of pain.

The blade was in his hand. He was practiced in the art of concealing the damage. He could feel the sturdy metal blade between his fingers as the old self-loathing beckoned to him. Pain was his friend.

He sat back against the headboard of the bed. The blade felt good, gripped firmly between his fingers. Then he traced a place just above his elbow joint. The pain was sharp and immediate, and he felt the release as the blood gushed over his fingers.


End file.
